Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) (8 page)

They could overcome whatever had gone wrong in their marriage, even Mike’s betrayal. She had adjusted the pillow beneath her, pulled the covers over her shoulders, and forced her eyes shut. Everything would be better, in time.

When she woke, sunlight poked around the drapes. She rolled over and looked at Mike’s side of the bed.

Empty. Untouched.

She grabbed her clock. Eight-thirty. Was that right?

The light edging the curtains said it was.

Where was Mike? Had something happened? Had the team’s plane gone down?

She flung back the covers, jumped from her bed.

No, someone would have called.

Where was he?

The guest room.

She grabbed her hair and yanked it into a ponytail, then hurried down the hall, but the room was empty. So was the other bedroom and the couch in the living room and family room. In the garage, her Lexus sat alone.

Okay. Okay. Calm down.
She dragged her hands down her cheeks and fell onto a chair at the kitchen table.
Think, Meg.

She turned on ESPN. The sports ticker streamed across the bottom of SportsCenter. There was last night’s score. Texas, three, and Kansas City, seven. And nothing else. No plane crash, no extended game, nothing out of the ordinary.

Pain flared in her stomach, a low flame that burned hotter and higher. Meg shoved it aside. For eleven days she’d faced the truth and survived. This wouldn’t kill her, either.

He was with Brooke.

She forced saliva so she could swallow. He’d always come home. After all, she did his laundry, kept his favorite beer in the fridge, cooked his favorite meals. Brooke hadn’t kept him yet. He’d be back. In a couple hours maybe—

Tears rolled down her cheeks and onto her fists. How could Mike do this?

Hours wore on. Mike did not appear, did not answer her calls. At 6:30, she turned on the team’s pre-game show. If he so much as smiled—

The pre-game showed him sitting in the dugout, talking to two players, the three of them laughing at whatever story they shared.

Her pain vanished.

When the game was almost over, Meg drove to the stadium and waited in the concourse outside the clubhouse. If Mike didn’t like it, he could blame himself.

Marty, one of the security guards, walked to where she leaned against the wall. “Any reason you’re out here, Meg?”

She kept her focus on the clubhouse doors. “Pink eye. I’m contagious.”

He nodded as if he’d seen it all before and returned to his chair.

Meg waited twenty minutes before the first player walked out. As Mike’s teammates emerged alone or in groups, she realized she could tell who knew and who did not.

Cliff, Jeff, and Juan waved, smiled, said hello.

Aaron wouldn’t look at her, although Lindsey, his wife, stopped to talk.

Dante and Mariah gave weak smiles and hurried past.

Maury, Eve, and their twin daughters asked why she was out here. Maury backed away at her excuse.

Adam Destin, one of Mike’s closest friends, took three steps outside the clubhouse before he saw her and turned back.

“Adam,” she called.

His shoulders slumped. Reluctantly he came over.

She prayed her voice would hold. “Please don’t tell him I’m here.”

He looked all around her before meeting her eyes, his own heavy. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged—it was that or bawl on his shoulder—and he left.

Two more players appeared before Mike walked out alone, a grin on his face. It vanished when he saw her, but he walked to her without missing a step, as if he’d expected her to be there.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Waiting for my husband.”

“Ah.” He adjusted his collar and looked around, nodding and smiling at someone down the concourse.

Couldn’t he pay attention for more than two seconds?

She fought to keep her voice calm and firm. “When are you coming home?”

“I don’t know.” He looked down, and she followed his gaze, watching him rock up and then down on his toes.

“I thought we were going to talk.”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

Noise from the clubhouse entrance distracted them, and Mike called goodnight to two more close friends, teammates who had to know this conversation wasn’t a good one.

She didn’t want to do this here. “Mike, come home. We can start over.”

“I have.” He took a step back, calling his friends. They stopped and turned. “Don’t come here again.”

“Mike, what am I supposed to—”

He held his arms out from his sides before turning and jogging away.

For the rest of the week, Meg stayed home, unable to end the nightmare.

By Saturday, she had to escape. She left home midmorning and drove to a decorating store to think. Just after one o’clock, she returned to the empty garage and carried her bags and Subway meal into the townhouse. At least Mike hadn’t cancelled their credit cards.

The moment she stepped inside, a familiar scent met her.

Mike’s cologne lingered in the air.

“Mike?” She dropped her bags on the table and ran through the first floor. “Mike?”

Maybe he was upstairs.

She rushed to the second floor, calling his name.

No answer.

In her bedroom, she stopped in the doorway, studying Mike’s side of the room.

His dresser—

Her hand clutched her throat. “No.” She stepped closer to Mike’s dresser. All of his drawers were open slightly, the way he left them that annoyed her so much. Only this time no socks stuck out. No T-shirt corners hung over the drawer’s edge. She tugged at his top drawer, knowing before it flew open that it would be empty.

They were all empty. So was his half of the closet. And his side of the bathroom.

Even his pillow was gone.

An ache spread through Meg, down her arms and legs, into her head and fingers. She sat on the edge of the bed and ran her hand over the empty spot, ignoring the tears that trickled down her face. “Why?”

He’d left without warning, without reason. Why was he doing this?

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. Hope rose within her that it was Mike, but reality gripped her. Of course it wasn’t him. If he’d forgotten something, he’d walk in and take it.

She wiped her cheeks with her hands and rubbed them dry on her shorts before taking her time down the stairs. She didn’t want to talk. Maybe by the time she got to the door, whoever it was would be gone.

But when she looked through the peephole, a man not much older than Mike still stood on the doorstep.

She shook her hair, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

“Meghan Connor?” he asked.

“Yes?”

He held out a manila envelope. “This is for you.” He waited while she opened the screen, but as soon as the envelope was in her hands, he darted for his car at the curb.

Her hands shook. She seated herself on the couch and forced herself to open the envelope.

Divorce papers.

The tears returned, building from a steady stream to sobs that sucked air from her lungs. Her stomach lurched and Meg ran to the bathroom, crying beside the toilet until she threw up.

An hour later, eyes swollen, nose plugged, and legs trembling, Meg walked from room to room, laying each picture of Mike face down in its place.

That scum.

In the living room she turned the eight-by-ten picture of them walking down the aisle, hand in hand as they grinned at each other, to the wall before sitting on the couch beneath it and calling a locksmith.

Next time he’d face her.

Mike could hear and feel the music before the doors to the Cleveland club opened. Eager for warmth, he trailed three teammates inside, Travis Benes, Will Hamrick, and Brett Burkholder, all as bored as he was.

Pressure built below his eyes, and Mike bit off a sneeze, then another as he looked around. A crowd packed the place—a good thing, he tried to convince himself. A crowd meant he’d be harder to notice.

Or was it more people to hassle him?

Some of the guys joked that he’d turned into a hermit, but he had his reasons. Wherever he went, people hounded him, men wanting autographs and women wanting… numerous things. Even now three women at a nearby table made no attempt to hide their availability.

He detoured away from them. Wait until they found out about his personal life. That’d send them running. “What am I doing here?” he asked.

Travis made a face. “What?”

Mike shook his head.

Brett picked a corner table, and Mike seated himself across from Will, his back to the crowd. This wasn’t so bad, a night out instead of room service. Mike flipped through the menu, even though he’d filled up on the post-game meal.

A new song started, the music pounding against him. Mike ordered a drink and leaned back in his chair. What was Meg up to tonight? Had she and Terrell seen his signal? He’d debated calling on pretense of making sure but decided not to. No telling how Meg would react.

At least she couldn’t throw frozen yogurt through a satellite.

Someone nudged him. “Connor. Wake up.”

“Hmm?” He looked up at his friends and then at the waitress standing beside their table.

She set his drink and another in front of him. “This is from one of the women at the bar.”

Without thinking, Mike looked over his shoulder.

The three women had moved to the bar and watched him. One smiled, her dark, silky hair falling over her shoulder. She crossed her legs, raising the glass in her hand.

Will chuckled and kicked him under the table, but Mike turned his back on the woman. He felt sick. “No. Thanks.” He shook his head and watched the drink disappear, leaving an incomplete wet ring on the table.

Another reason to stay close to his hotel. Like he needed reminders of Brooke. Mike rubbed his hand over his eyes and forehead. What an ugly year that had been. Life had taken on a grimy, sandy feel since then.

“What was that?” Will leaned across the table. “Did you
see
her?”

“Not interested.”

“Really.” Will pushed his chair back, the legs scraping the floor. “Maybe I’ll buy her a drink. Someone has to apologize for your behavior.”

Mike shrugged. “It’s your life,” he said as Will disappeared past him.

“You all right?” Brett asked.

“I’m sick.” He toyed with his drink, realizing how true that was. He was sick of relationships that failed one after the other, sick of his thoughts returning to Meg like a magnet, sick of the way his conscience hounded him. And now that he knew where Meg was and that they had a son—

Suing for custody flashed again in his mind.

Mike sucked in a slow breath. No, he couldn’t go that route. If he forgave Meg, maybe she’d forgive him. And maybe then he’d feel okay again.

Maybe.

The waitress returned with their appetizers. Mike dragged triangle-cut French bread through Will’s spinach and artichoke dip. What was it about Meg that drew him? Even during his relationships after Brooke, he’d never been able to completely shake his feelings for Meg, and he’d often wondered how long it would take before her memory no longer haunted him.

And Sara… She’d seen the truth he hadn’t. That it would never happen. Fifteen years from the first time he saw Meg, and he could still replay the moment. Even here, in a loud, crowded club. He pictured her walking into biology class seconds before the bell, approaching him, and sliding into the empty seat in front of him. Her long, wavy hair whirled out around her, and Mike fought the urge to lean into it.

He’d never seen her before. Was she new? As roll call began, Mike listened for her name.

Meghan Caldwell.

Meghan. What a perfect name. Unique, gorgeous. Like her.

He had to meet her.

By the time Mike heard his name, Coach Patterson was glaring at him and emphasizing each syllable. “Michael Connor?”

Around him kids snickered.

“Are you here or not?” Coach Patterson asked.

“Here,” he’d said. “Very glad to be here.”

Brett’s voice broke into his thoughts. “What are you smiling at?”

Mike moved his eyes from the wall behind Will’s chair to his teammates, feeling the dopey expression on his face. “What?”

“What’s up with you?” Travis asked.

“Nothing.” Standing, he pulled out his wallet, grabbed some money, and dropped it on the table. “Will you take care of this?”

“Sure. Where you going?”

“To the hotel.” Where he could reminisce in peace.

Mike shouldered through the crowd, past pens and autograph pleas, past Will who punched him in the arm before returning to the dark-haired woman, and past the front doors.

What was Meg doing tonight?

Once he was inside his hotel room, he pulled her business card from his wallet. He called her number, then stretched out on the bed, channel surfing while he waited for her to answer.

Instead, voicemail picked up.

He tossed his phone aside, still flipping channels. A news station caught his attention, and he listened to the update on Sunday’s earthquake in Japan. He hadn’t known there’d been one.

Meg could probably tell him all about it though, if she was still a news junkie.

He pictured her early in his baseball career lying on the couch with the TV on, some textbook pressed against her knees, her bare toes playing with pillow fringe.

“What are you watching?” he’d ask.

“The news,” she’d say, then greet him with a hug and a kiss and an update on the most recent political scandal or international tension or natural disaster. He’d tease her about being addicted and needing help and she’d smack his chest, pretending to be hurt…

He closed his eyes. He hit the off button, and silence filled the room.

Better.

What was it he wanted from Meg? Her grace, her looks, and her demeanor intrigued him, just as they had when she’d so regally walked into biology class and ignored him. Was that it? Because she didn’t fall all over him, he was interested in her again?

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. No. Meg had been his first love, and although he’d wandered, no one had compared to her. He and Meg had been right for each other, right in a way that couldn’t be matched by anyone else.